


Magnificent Strangers

by KalendraAshtar



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Complete, F/M, Fluff and Angst, short multi, tw: cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22224847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KalendraAshtar/pseuds/KalendraAshtar
Summary: Faced with a devastating diagnosis, Claire Beauchamp uses humour as her weapon of choice. One day during treatment, her path collides with that of a magnificent stranger.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 126
Kudos: 332





	1. Third Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> This fic won’t be very long – I estimate about five chapters. If everything works out as I intended, you’ll both laugh and be moved by it. There’s a lot of reasons why this story feels very close to my heart and I hope you enjoy it!

##  **Part I - _Third Cycle_**

There are places where you half-expect to meet the man of your dreams: a dim nightclub, while you dance around each other in a sweaty courtship; a Christmas party, showered with copious amounts of expensive booze; a holiday at an adults-only resort in _Barbados_ , crawling with other slightly desperate single people; a trendy pub after work hours, eyes clashing from different corners of the room.

And then there are places where you’d never expect to meet anyone significant, much less the love of your life.

The crowded and solemn wake of a relative, who happens to be a prominent figure in the community. A dentist appointment, bound to leave you with two less wisdom teeth and a swollen face for three days. A midnight impromptu trip to a convenience store to grab sanitary towels, because your period arrived unexpectedly, when you didn’t even bother to put on actual clothes underneath your trench coat. 

Or a chemotherapy session, in the middle of your third treatment cycle.

Today is _Chemotherapy Monday_. Mondays used to be for blues that lasted until Thursday, fishy lasagna at the canteen and drinks with the girls. Now, _Chemotherapy Mondays_ are pretty much like _Chemotherapy Tuesdays_ and only marginally worse than _Chemotherapy Fridays_.

Four months ago, I was showering after a passable nooky (with my then beau-of-three-and-a-half-months Frank Randall), when I noticed a lump on my right breast. It would only take two weeks to be diagnosed with stage two breast cancer.

Frank, self-important and chivalrous (at least in his own notion of himself), promised me we would “ _weather the storm together_ ”. His resolution, shaky like a drunken man after three days of sobriety, lasted ( _surprisingly_ ) until the day I shaved my hair.

He took one good look at me, bald and grinning, shook his head and told me he couldn’t do it anymore. _“It’s not the hair.”_ Frank mumbled, as he neatly stacked a few meagre possessions he had been leaving in my apartment into his overnight bag. _“It’s the way you are always making tasteless jokes about it all - as if everything is nothing but a punchline waiting to happen.”_

“ _Well, don’t let me deter you.”_ I went into the kitchen and filled up a generous glass of water. _“I’d scream and pluck my hair out like a proper woman scorned - but, you know.”_ I pointed vaguely towards my hairless scalp and sat silently on the couch until he left.

I couldn’t tell him that humour felt closer to being alive than tears. I couldn’t put into words that making a joke was a form of control I relished on, when control was slowly being taken away from me. I felt like a dandelion, one strong blow away from being scattered.

I greet everyone upon arriving by name, because I work – well, _used to work_ , I guess it’s the accurate way to phrase it – in this hospital as a nurse in the A&E. I’m holding my bright yellow tea infuser bottle, meant as much to prevent dehydration, as to give me something to do with my hands instead of fidget as I settle in the comfortable, yet morbid, adjustable armchair. Luckily, my usual spot is available, even if I don’t really know any of the pale, waxy, hopeful or stoic faces around me.

This isn’t my usual schedule for treatment. Usually, I do it with the nightingale group, but they needed an opening for an elderly patient, since she only had someone to accompany her at that time, and I accepted to be transferred to a late afternoon session.

“How are you feeling today?” Nurse Mary asks gently, plugging me to my treatment bag through the port-a-cath bellow my clavicle.

In an entire childish way of behaving ( _even if only mentally_ ), I branded all nurses in the Oncology Department with dinosaur names. Mary is _Stegosaurus_ \- _herbivorous and friendly_.

“Pretty _cancerless_.” I wink, grabbing my tablet from my rucksack, to peruse the latest on my social media. I’m not averse to talking during treatment, but most people tend to keep to their own thoughts; I try not to dwell too much on what I fear will happen, and what I worry will never come to pass.

I notice the man sitting next to me almost at once.

He is beautiful, but in a way that most men aren’t nowadays; he is toned, slightly rugged and entirely unapologetic. His nails are short and clean, but not manicured, like those of a man who knows how to be decent without making a fuss; his red, roan and cinnabar hair is clipped very short, but it doesn’t look like a sentence inflicted upon him, as it does for so many others. His shoelaces have triple knots and they speak of a man prepared, careful and slightly quirky. 

And he is shaking _quite badly_.

Some chemotherapy drugs will give you a nasty feeling of getting down with the flu, very hard and very fast, with shivers coursing through your body relentlessly. I immediately sympathize with the awkward giant next to me, whose teeth are clattering together enough to make my own bones rattle.

“Are you new here?” I ask, hopefully in a kind way, placing my tablet on top of my folded legs. Nurse Laoghaire, aka _Velociraptor_ , is dressing down a patient nearby for some indiscernible reason. I’m secretly yearning for history to repeat itself, extinguishing her somehow with a meteor.

“Nay.” He tries to smile back at me, but only manages a quite comical grimace. “I’m a professional, lass – this is my fourth round.”

“Forgot your blanket, then?” I raise a brow and fish for a small, light, quilt from my bag, throwing it to his lap. “I brought this just to be on the safe side, but I don’t think I’ll need it today.“

He hesitates and I can feel letting others help him doesn’t come naturally to him, so I softly swat his hand just as he starts to hand me back the blanket. ” _Really,_ you need to take it. I can’t focus on my healing while you slowly die of hypothermia beside me.“

He snorts, ogling me, and slowly wraps his long legs with the warm material, so meticulously it almost moves me. "Thank ye, truly. I’m James Fraser - well, I usually go by Jamie, unless I’m in some kind of trouble.”

“Claire Beauchamp - nice to meet you.” I smirk pleasantly and turn my attention back to my iPad, mostly to avoid staring at his strikingly handsome face like a complete nincompoop. I see little white dots of light on the periphery of my vision and wonder if his dazzling smile might have burn through my retina.

I massage the space between my eyes, trying to concentrate on editing my last chapter of sordid fanfiction. It’s deliciously smutty and it seems like the proper antidote for the ominous drip-a-drip of chemotherapy being pumped into my body.

“Are you almost done with your treatment?” Jamie asks, in a tone that begs for human interaction. When I glance back at him, he is studying me with the intensity of a _Jedi_ summoning the _Force_.

I self-consciously adjust the silk scarf covering my billiard-ball-head (worn mostly to defy Edinburgh’s piercing cold, than out of some kind of embarrassment _up until this very moment_ ). “Third cycle.” I shrug, trying to convey that it’s not a big deal. “Breast cancer. You?”

“Might as well try and guess to help us pass the time.” He raises a ruddy brow in a cocky challenge, and I want to bite down the adorable wrinkle on his forehead - it’s quite a foreign feeling, right smack in the middle of a grey _Chemotherapy Monday_.

I eye him appraisingly, trying to hide my growing amusement. “ _Lung_? You definitely look like a huge pipe smoker. Perhaps even some Cuban cigars, while you pat your utterly vicious cat.”

His body jerks, this time with laughter. He is a _laugh-with-your-whole-body_ type of individual, as if happiness is to be shared through every pore, and I find it disturbingly irresistible. “Verra cold there, wee _Sassenach_.”

He is fairly young, probably somewhere in his early thirties just like myself, so that narrows my options. I squint and slowly give him a once-over, assessing him critically, but somehow my eyes get caught by the spellbinding triangle of his narrow hips. I cock a brow in silent question, and he cackles.

“Not _that_ either. My bawbag is quite healthy, thank ye verra much.” His boldness and straightforwardness are almost staggering in the sterile environment of the treatment room. I think I might have found a kindred spirit and loneliness almost makes me nauseous as it suddenly leaves me, abrasive and heavy. “I got Hodgkin lymphoma for my thirtieth birthday, six months ago.”

“And no return receipt to be found in the package, am I right?” I lean my head against the edge of the armchair, smelling faintly of engrained bitter fear and hand sanitizer. “I’m a nurse here at the _Royal Infirmary_. Will I have to guess what you do for a living as well?”

He smacks his lips together and nods in agreement, adjusting the position of his seat just so, in order for us to be closer together ( _like two old aunts plotting a delightful matchmaking_ ).

I calmly judge the wicked size of his torso - even slimmed down, as I’m sure he is by the effects of the disease - and the quiet strength of his presence. “Hm, night-club bouncer?”

Jamie offers me a wide-eyed, incredulous but charmed, look. “I don’t think I’ve seen the inside of a night-club in the last ten years.”

“I sure hope you’re not a male stripper, given how prone you are to getting cold.” I tease him and scrunch my nose; he howls and we both get a scolding glare from _Velociraptor_ ( _I envision her sniffing the air for her pray and roaring before launching a deadly attack_ ).

“Maybe I’m in trouble after all with ye.” His lips curl in a lopsided grin, lazy and warm, and it makes me question the consistency of my inner organs. “I’m far more boring than that, lass. British Army - _22nd Special Air Service Regiment_ , currently on reserve for _obvious reasons_.”

“Oh.” I suspect a fierce flush is creeping up my neck. “That’s nice - hm, _Sir_.”

Jamie presses his lips together to avoid a snort, his indigo eyes heating up to the temperature of tropical seas, where people yearn to bathe fully naked. “Glad to serve, Miss Beauchamp.”

“Since I’ve failed so terribly in guessing anything about _you,_ maybe we should put you on the spot as well.” I drink from my bottle, using the time to wonder if I’m unmistakably doomed for _flirting inside day hospital_. “What colour do you think my hair is?”

His eyes darken substantially, acquiring a perplexing depth, and he leans over to inspect my face until our noses are separated by only mere inches. The intensity of his proximity and his gaze leaves me more than a little breathless.

“Judging by yer eyebrows,” He tilts his chin up slightly. His eyes upon me feel like the sun, blistering and changing the pigments in every layer of my skin, no shade whatsoever to shield me. “ _Definitely_ blonde. Probably strawberry blonde, to be precise.”

I’m still in a fit of giggles when Nurse Mary comes to unplug me from my treatment bag. Jamie has already finished, neatly folded the blanket and returned it to me with a heart-melting curtsy.

“Do ye want to grab something to eat?” He asks, towering over me like a resilient skyscraper, and glances quickly at his wristwatch. “I predict I have eight good hours left before I start vomiting my guts, so might as well ask now.”

“Yes.” I wave goodbye to other patients as we leave with a renewed giddiness in our gaits. “I’d like that very much… _Sir_.”


	2. Something Missing

##  **Part II – _Something Missing_**

I groan loudly in pleasure at the second bite of my chocolate croissant, when I notice Jamie’s gaze, brimming with awe and blatant hilarity.

“What?” I ask, my mouth so full of flaky and buttery pastry dough, there’s no way I can pretend I’m a proper lady, instead of a _black-hole-meant-for-food-obliteration_.

“Does yer raiding party come here much?” He asks with a grin that would put the _Cheshire Cat_ to shame. “Ye eat like a _Viking_ , lass.” Jamie takes a sip of his black coffee, accompanied by a plain whole wheat toast; on my side of the cafeteria table, a glass of orange juice, a cheese sandwich, a plate of fruit and a croissant are in close collusion to make me _very happy_. “A _damned starved one_ at that.”

“Nutrition is very important when you’re battling cancer.” I retort primly, brushing away incriminating crumbs from my demolishing mouth. I’ve obviously failed to mention _pain au chocolat_ isn’t exactly the prime example in the antioxidant and vitamin-wealthy department. “I need to keep my energy levels up there.” I raise my hand to show how high I want to go ( _fairly high for my pocket size existence_ ) and he snorts.

“Which oncologist is assigned tae ye?” Jamie cleans his mouth with a white napkin and I secretly conspire to grab it as a souvenir, because this man is uncannily sexy in the simplest ways. “I have _Doctor Sunshine_.”

“Me too!” I roll my eyes and smile at him, delighted that he uses her nickname as well.

Dottie Grey is posh and collected, always dressed in hues of black, white and _dégradés of dull_ , and there’s a legend on the _Infirmary_ ’s halls that she was spotted smiling _once_ , a gesture so bizarre that inflicted the most cruel terror in the hearts of those who witnessed it. The ironic moniker _Doctor Sunshine_ is passed down amongst her cancer patients like a prized baton. She seems competent enough, so I’m more than happy to endure her colourless taste.

“Is she happy with how your treatment is going?” I ask quietly, knowing this can be a delicate subject to many people around the ward, but also absurdly curious about everything regarding the _SAS_ agent in front of me.

He shrugs and studies me intently, with those military eyes that demand instant surrender. “I think she’s hopeful. I’m no’ ready to die just yet, Sassenach.” He nibbles the crust of his toast with an intentionality that makes my toes curl, my belly clench ( _it is as if he animates me from the outside in, my own ventriloquist_ ). “I mean, I have lived a fairly good life so far – I’ve travelled, fucked, laughed and let myself be moved more than most people ever will. I have grown things with my own hands and levelled some as well. But there’s still something important missing, I reckon.” His eyes soften and his voice turns into a whisper, so much so I have to lean a bit towards him to listen. “ _A great love story_.”

I swallow heavily, the peculiar egg-sized weight in my throat either from sudden emotion or food impaction. I certainly noticed he doesn’t have a wedding band on his ring finger ( _immediately after his first blinding smile_ ), but the availability of his heart seems like the type of rare celestial occurrence that makes worldwide astronomers go hysterical.

If I had a plate of butter around right now, I’d surely put my elbow inside it and make a complete dipstick of myself.

“It seems like a brilliant life.” I almost make the gesture of fluffing my hair seductively, realizing how pointless it is when my hand is already mid-air. “I’d love to hear some of those stories.”

And so he tells me, each word measured to cause me wonder and delight.

Jamie engrosses me with tales of his three-month trip through Australia and New Zealand, right after he finished school ( _he takes me to swim with him in those clear blue waters, and I almost feel the sun kissing my skin through his eyes_ ). He tells me about his family, the ones he visits in the graveyard and the one he sees when he goes home in the _Highlands_. He blushes softly throughout the retelling of some “ _lasses_ ” he dated and how they never quite fit, puzzle pieces from different boxes of life. About his work he doesn’t talk much – “ _it’s mostly classified, aye_?” -, but he does admit that it gives his life worth and breadth, as if his chest expands to accommodate a new rib with every successful mission.

When he stops talking and smiles at me self-consciously, I realize I don’t want to part from him on this _Chemotherapy Monday_ , even if I’ll see him again on _Chemotherapy Tuesday_. He has made this day remarkable and hope creeps on my skin like a permanent tingle.

“I was going to catch a movie in a bit.” I glance at him under my lashes, fidgeting with the curly paper straw on my empty glass and feeling more collegial than a thirteen-year-old-Claire. “If you want to – _you know_ , if you don’t have anything better to do or –“

“Aye, I’d love to go wi’ ye.” He touches my hand on the tabletop with an eager gentleness and all my smiles are his from that moment on. I feel sparkly like champagne and cider on the eve of something great.

The movie is a well-known blockbuster sequel and we both laugh and gasp at all the appropriate moments. He doesn’t try to talk during the screening, respectful and well-mannered, and eats quietly from his popcorn package, a quality I find uncommon and rather charming.

We leave the theatre and the crowd parts to let me through, with ill-hidden whispers and pity-filled looks.

I call it _The Cancer Effect_.

I mean, my head has become some sort of scarlet flagship for the disease within; while I stoically look ahead, dispense vacant looks and pretend everything is normal, I also want to scream like a wicked banshee.

It’s the ignominy of this morbidly fascinating state in which my cells have gone rogue - it’s _everyone’s disease_ , in a sense. It’s not mine to hold in secret or privacy.

Jamie, undoubtedly feeling my unease, puts his magnificently built arm around my shoulders, and walks slowly and casually, effectively breaking the spell of isolation and _otherness_.

“I noticed ye were writing, back at the hospital.” He says conversationally, steering me to a quieter street. “Are ye an aspiring-author-by-night, nurse-by-day?”

“No.” I sniff, scratching my nose in paralyzing embarrassment. “I’m into fanfiction, mostly _Game of Thrones_ \- just as a pastime while I’m not working. It’s a healthier escape than day drinking, I guess.”

“I’d love to read it at some point.” His expression is serious and quite adorable; I half-expected him to drop his arm at my admission, as if I suffered from leprosy in the _Middle Ages_ , but he keeps holding me close.

“Ah! Over my dead, _cold_ , body.” I squint threateningly at him, pressing my lips together like a sour matron. “And even then, I’ll have someone seal them inside the casket.”

“How verra Ancient-Egypt-of-you, Cleopatra.” He mocks, sticking his tongue out.

It’s right then, amidst belly-deep merriment, that I walk straight into _The Wall_.

There’s a moment during chemo week when your strength leaves you altogether and only an overwhelming tiredness seems to exist. Exhaustion ignites your muscles, until there’s no combustible left to move or walk. Your legs cramp and sleep is an irresistible creature, the siren on the rocks of your day.

I halt and struggle to keep standing up, focusing on my breathing. I should be home, lying down on my bed, but I wanted to go out and pretend to be healthy with this boy I was starting to fancy.

“Is something amiss, Claire?” Jamie’s eyes crinkle with preoccupation, inspecting me closely for visible damage.

I shake my head and laugh feebly. “I’m fine. Too much popcorn, that’s all. The power of that sugar rush.”

He doesn’t seem very reassured and keeps throwing me worried looks, as I struggle to put one foot in front of the other. My legs are wobbling like an elaborate rice-pudding and it’s taking all my considerable obstinacy to stop me from sitting down on the pavement.

I give him a smile with the vitality ( _and colour)_ of expired mayonnaise and he studies me attentively, the corner of his upper lip slightly raised, but says nothing.

I try to babble about random subjects, without a clue if I’m even constructing coherent sentences, while I drag my feet like a prisoner facing the dreaded gallows.

Eventually, I have to cave in or faint and risk breaking my nose in the middle of the street.

“ _Fuck_. I don’t feel well.” I whisper under my breath, as I stop completely and lean fully against him. “I think I might need help getting home.”

In a swift movement, he takes my body with ease and places it against his back, the palms of his hands firmly holding my thighs, inches away from the sensitive curve of my arse.

Just like that, I’m piggybacking James Fraser.

“That was stealth, _Sir_.” I huff against his ear, hugging his neck with my arms without any pretence at modesty. “Was that part of your _SAS_ training? Grabbing a lady in distress?”

“Nah.” His voice sounds hoarse, darker and luxurious - with my breastbone and ribcage pressed against his spine, I feel it ripple in all the places where I’m hollow. “ _Catholic school_.”

I muffle a cackle against his shoulder, the pleasant and homely scent of leather, misted grass and orange detergent filling my nostrils. “I’d never have presumed you to be a _good proper boy_.”

“I can be _good_.” Jamie’s tone is mischievous and I’m just about melting against his lovely body. “Not sure about proper, though. Most good things aren’t, aye?”

“Thank you.” I mumble softly, dreamily tracing his left clavicle with my thumb. “You knew I wasn’t okay, but you didn’t nag me about it. Most people would be screaming _"I told you so!”_ and dragging me by an ankle right about now.“

He pauses, as if he is pondering the merits of throwing me to the floor; then, he squeezes my forearm soothingly. "I dinna appreciate people telling me what to do when I’m no’ ready for it, either. It’s no’ a crime to be proud and independent, _Sassenach_ \- I do hope you take better care of yerself when I’m not around, though.”

We’re already safely seated inside the tram when I glance at his face and notice the subdued lines of exhaustion on his face, the pull of fatigue on the corners of his kissable mouth and beautifully slanted eyes.

Jamie must have been feeling pretty much as I did after his own treatment; he carried me for a complete mile, without ever faltering or complaining.

My heart shrinks and then it expands overwhelmingly, occupying my whole body, and still not completely fitting – I might be forced to share it with someone else.

“It’s _LadyCurlyWig_1_.” I grip his hand for a moment. The palms of our hands feel like history being made between us. “ _My handle_. Just pretend you never read it, okay?”


	3. Not Jane Austen

##  **Part III - _Not Jane Austen_**

On _Chemotherapy Tuesday_ , I feel uncharacteristically hopeful, not necessarily in a cure for my illness, but in a resolution for that debilitating feeling of disconnect. When you’re diagnosed, it feels a bit like yielding a very sharp knife, cutting all the tethers that anchor you to life, to a sense of self and to normalcy. For once, life is calling me from that place, instead of looming death.

When I enter the room, he is already there, this time cradling his own tablet like an infant’s head in his big palm. I wave in greeting and he smiles back momentarily, but keeps reading, thoroughly enthralled.

_Pterodactyl_ ( _small, quirky and slightly unnerving_ ) comes to plug me in and I expect Jamie to initiate conversation, just as he did the day before. His eyes are fixed on the screen, wide and still-lake blue, and by the look on his face he might be reading _The Book of Revelation._

I try to distract myself by looking at the treatment room’s decoration - _or lack thereof_ -, remarkably naked of gimcrack and gewgaw, with a sole picture of a sunny field occupying the large wall. I guess there’s no point in trying to make such a place more suitable for the living; cancer ruins any attempt at proper _feng shui_.

“No chit-chat today, huh?” I tease after a while, hopelessly eager to be standing in the sun of his smiling blue eyes yet again.

“‘Tis the _most engrossing read_ , Sassenach.” He nods gravely and smiles in a way that makes my solar plexus do a full spin, his handsome face like a pinch in between ribs, straight into the frailty amidst bone. A dark suspicion that he’s reading the complete works of _LadyCurlyWig_1_ creeps in, and I’m both mortified and elated.

I purse my lips, decided to be the _coolest of cool_ , eyeing the drip of chemo as I tap my index finger against my thigh rhythmically. My eyes keep seeking his face ( _the scar on his temple the size of my thumb’s nail, the patches of blonde stubble on his jaw, the tiny mole on the back of his right ear_ ) and I notice the puzzled frown of his brows as soon as it dawns, the way his mouth opens and closes in quick succession.

“Your cogs must be rusty,” I point sheepishly, playing with my earring. “I can hear them turning from over here.”

Jamie tilts his head to the side before answering me, as if a new ( _sideways_ ) perspective can command better answers out of the screen of his _iPad_.

“I - I -” He glances at me, stunned and openly impressed. “I didna ken such a thing was even possible, lass.” And he leans over to show me what he had been reading.

It’s not only one of my fangirl works, but the one who made me relevant in the _Game of Thrones_ fandom, that can only be described as “ _a large plate of smut with a little siding of plot_ ”. _Gorblimey_.

The particular passage Jamie is pointing had me editing furiously for extra limbs back in the day, with an abundance of arms and legs involved in delectable contortionism for the span of five entire pages. It’s imaginative and risqué, without many other literary redeeming qualities.

“Well,” I hawk and strive to remain composed, almost adjusting imaginary glasses against the bridge of my nose. “It _is_ possible. If you, _hm_ \- if you don’t skip Pilates class for a good while.”

Jamie studies me with disarming interest for a beat, before he offers me the _dirtiest_ , _loveliest_ , lopsided smirk and returns his attention to the page. It isn’t lost on me that his body was sharpened by years of training, programmed to attain the impossible in terms of physicality ( _of fulfilling any duty_ ). _Solid gulp_.

“Aside from a surprisingly naughty mind, ye are a verra bonny writer, Claire.” He states solemnly, and I don’t detect any falsehood or mocking in his gentle words. “Ye should consider writing something that is yers to tell. A _real book_ wi’ yer name out in the world, wee Viking.”

I huff and roll my eyes, completely discombobulated. “That is _absurd_ , _Sir_. I’m hardly the next Jane Austen.”

“I doubt Miss Austen knew the double entendre of a _butter churner_ , but ye definitely have the wit for it.” He winks at me, looking like a flustered owl and I almost choke with laughter. “Think about it, will ye?”

By the time my fourth, and hopefully last, cycle of chemotherapy rolls around, Jamie and I are inseparable. Our friendship has solidified like instant deliciously-flavoured jello, and we spend long afternoons walking the city’s parks, perusing thrift stores, drinking endless cups of dark coffee and tea and sharing a kind of rare intimacy that makes me somewhat fragile.

The truth is that James Fraser makes me _very weak in the knees_. His deep voice destroys my cartilage and the sincerity of his smile tears my ligaments, until I’m a wobbling mess.

He makes me weak in places I was already weak to start with.

But love on the road we are set upon is a very dangerous activity, one more thing to let go if we have to say goodbye, and half the time I wish to be unburdened from it. The other half I spend _wanting him_ , realizing I might as well _live while I’m still alive_.

We haven’t trespassed the boundaries of friendship yet, manning our defensive walls like little countries at war. But two weeks ago, we had _a moment_ when we parted at my door, late one night; Jamie’s palms brushed my cheeks and he was so close I smelled the minty crispness of his breath, my heart pounding madly in mindless anticipation. In the end, he left without kissing me and my lips felt bruised by the absence of his touch. 

Today, he comes over to my house to help me paint the walls of my living room. Tired of tedious and anemic white, I’ve decided to paint one wall clover-green, with a corner of colourful flowers carefully applied with stencil. It’s a private garden I’m growing with a paintbrush, in case there will come a time when I can’t get outside easily.

“This is looking braw, Sassenach.” He scratches his nose and I fail to mention he is smearing green paint all over his high cheek. Jamie is comfortably standing in my house, sleeves rolled-up to expose his well-toned forearms, old torn jeans hugging his statuesque arse, and I want to print screen the image inside my eyelids for future reference.

I nod in acquiescence, absurdly proud of my concept, and almost bite my tongue in concentration as I finish a particularly intricate red poppy with a thin brush. “Sometimes we just have to dare a little and be amazed by what we get in return.”

I feel something sticky on my head and yelp Iike a distressed piglet as Jamie’s red-paint-coated-finger swiftly doodles something on my temporal area. I’m not wearing a beanie or scarf today; my hair is starting to grow again, infinitesimal as it might be, and I wanted to celebrate it. It proves that some things in me are still able to heal and be made anew.

“What the _actual fuck_ , James Fraser?” I complain loudly, but my mouth betrays me with a giggle. “I thought soldiers enjoyed peaceful times and didn’t go looking for pointless wars.”

When I turn to him, my diaphragm forgets the simple movements necessary to breathe.

Jamie scrutinizes me with the analytical gaze of a rather soft aeronautical engineer trying to discern if his spaceshift will reach a new, undiscovered, planet. “Yer hair isna strawberry blonde at all, aye?” His voice is lower and hoarser than usual; I imagine it will sound rather like that early in the morning, when he is still slightly undone. “It’s rather like _chocolate._ ” He delicately traces my mastoid bone with a stained finger, the perimeter of my growing tufts tingling with his touch. “Smooth, creamy and luscious. When it’s longer, I think it will melt against my fingers, Sassenach.”

“You aren’t disappointed, then?” I joke, feeling a kind of giddy nervousness taking over my coherence, squashing it like a cupcake under the hand of a toddler. “That I’m just some _regular brunette_?”

“Disappointed?” Jamie tilts his chin, intensity edged upon every line of his striking face, and he pulls me towards the mirror in the hallway.

When I stand in front of my own reflection, with Jamie’s powerful hands gripping my shoulders, I realize he has drawn a red heart on my scalp.

It’s plump, half-crooked, extravagant and pulses with each throb of my temporal pulse. My disease has carved me notorious external marks ( _baldness, port-a-cath, angry-red scar on my breast, permanent dark circles under my eyes_ ), so the fact that I can wear someone else’s feelings for me on my very skin seems like a step towards being whole.

I search his eyes in the mirror, finding there the kind of hunger and hope that you can only offer to the things you love.

“ _Me too_.” I admit breathlessly.

I turn and he leans towards me, closing the space between us with the immensity of his presence, but he doesn’t kiss me with anything but his eyes ( _intent, tantalizing, shaped like blue moons rising_ ). He awaits me in a perfect halfway, so any choice can’t be mistaken by a lapse in judgment.

His mouth is warm and gentle when I finally brush my lips against it, made for long kisses and longer conversations. Our first kiss is unhurried and generous, with a hint of tentativeness born out of anticipation; Jamie wants to make sure there will be more kisses to share after this one. 

I hear a persistent humming sound that is almost distracting, but take an embarrassingly long time to realize it’s coming from my own content throat - I want to laugh, cry, kiss him, breathe, wiggle my tongue, swallow him, curse and howl. I will everything into this sole moment of my existence, my arms around his neck, his hands seeking my waist, the light smell of our sweat mingling where our bodies press together.

I realize neither of us hoped to be kissed like this ever again.


	4. Remission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter after this one, guys. I hope you see it through with me. X

##  **Part IV - _Remission_**

Some events press into our lives with such strength, they effectively cleave it into two: the _before_ and the _after_.

A war. A divorce. The birth of a first child. The invention of electricity. A vicious car accident.

_Being kissed by James Fraser for three consecutive days, with little interruption_. _Before kiss;_ _after kiss_ \- my deliciously punished lips the line separating the two.

If snogging Jamie could be considered an Olympic sport, I would definitely be a proud gold medallist and world-record holder. I would wake up at dawn and relinquish even dark coffee for some dedicated training. The man was made to be kissed and I was born to kiss him, two destinies converging in a saliva-swapping encounter.

Besides kissing - and some exploratory fondling, mostly done on top of layers of clothing - not _much_ has happened. Jamie respects me in an endearing and somewhat infuriating way, and I haven’t mastered a way to tell him I want to be _respected a little less, or with far less clothes on_. He has read my fanfiction, so he knows I’m not averse to the fine art of sexing. He is taking his sweet time and driving me insane.

I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile. Even when I know I might be, _just a little_.

On this _No-Chemotherapy Wednesday_ , I’m sitting on Jamie’s plush couch watching him play the saxophone. He is executing a solo cover of _Yellow,_ and I feel like my insides are rapidly liquifying into a golden-coloured smoothie of love, desire and awe. He is creating a kind of magnetic _Coltrane_ alchemy; it’s an almost voyeuristic experience to watch him bend over the instrument lovingly and turn his breath into jazz.

Jamie learned to play the sax early in his adolescent years and became quite accomplished, up until the time he relinquished it to pursue a career in military service. I cooed in delight the first time I went to his house and noticed the instrument’s case laying sadly on the corner of his living room.

He hadn’t played since his diagnosis, because he had no music left in him. But now he plays for me almost every day.

As I watch him perform, I want to tell him I put on good black lingerie, inspected my legs and armpits for any miscreant hairs and dabbed expensive perfume between my breasts. The beautiful contradiction of strength and tenderness he applies into his skilled fingers tightens everything inside me, until I’m taut and desperate.

He finishes his rendition and I applaud him wholeheartedly, fascinated by the glint of sweat on his handsome brow. He pulls me into his lap and kisses me soundly.

“Come here, wee Viking.” He says hoarsely, still a little out of breath, gripping my waist tightly. “ _Hmmm_ , ye smell sae good today.”

“Do I?” I say innocently, brushing my lips against his on a tease. “Just my usual herbal soap and maybe some residual curry from last night.”

He laughs, a delicious throaty sound, and I almost tell him “ _do it again, do it forever, I want to exist naked inside your laughter_ ”. Instead, I push my mouth against his and _it is on_.

His lips are moist and knowing, and he goes from slow and deep into all-consuming and _brutal-but-oh-so-good_ in the space of five heartbeats. It’s the best possible reason to fight for our hearts to carry on, so I can see what he will create with the next beats of my frantic heart.

I feel his hand arching on my belly, the tips of his fingers edging upon the contour of my breasts, and this is when he usually pulls back into _proper-demeanour-land_ , when all I want is to go for _ravage-me-please-district_.

Feeling tiny yet bold, I look straight into his horizon-blue eyes and say, “I don’t want you to stop this time. If you - if you don’t want to.”

He nods, his high cheeks rosy and lovely, not from embarrassment but from the tinge of red passion. “Are ye sure, Claire?”

I’m sure, but I also don’t know what I’m offering him, alright. This body is that of a stranger, some mystifying twin of mine that stepped out of the mirror and took over my life. I have recent scars, new hollows and crannies on my body where frightening things could be hiding, numbness on the tips of my toes from chemo.

What if I’m numb all over? What if I’m encased in this cancer-ridden body, wanting and yearning, but incapable of being freed by his touch?

I don’t feel ugly, nor unworthy, but this newfound vulnerability makes me raw, always on the verge of aching sincerely.

“I have a scar.” I lick my lips and fidget with the cuff of my sweater, utterly nervous. “Right here.” My middle and index fingers touch the side of my right breast. I had a partial mastectomy and reconstruction on the same surgery, but that patch of skin still feels a bit foreign to me. “They tell me it will get better with time.”

Jamie studies me and I have the terrifying sense that he _sees me_ , afraid and lustful and awkward.

He slowly manoeuvres me in a way that allows him to strip off his t-shirt, while I’m still balancing on his lap. I have to clap my mouth shut to avoid a moan and a giggle.

Jamie turns his left forearm and shows me a scar shaped like a crooked T. “Hot oven bite when I was ten and bakin’ cookies for my birthday all alone. My Ma had just passed, and grief makes ye terribly stupid and careless.”

His palms stretches the chiselled skin of his lower left abdomen, displaying a large mark, like the violent explosion of broken glass. “ _Iraq_.” He utters simply. Then he raises and turns, the wondrous planes of his shoulder blades exposed like tectonic plates shifting to cause an earthquake inside me, and he taps his lower spine with two fingers. “Lumbar puncture, back when I became really ill and no one had a clue what was amiss.”

He turns to me again, naked from the waist up, offering me all his scars at once.

“I’m an army man, _Sassenach_.” Jamie says softly, his smile of a thousand suns shining brightly. “Scars are like a bit of foreplay to me. Ye’re a bonny fighter, my own. The bonniest I’ve ever seen.”

He guides me to his bedroom.

We kiss for a while longer laying on the bed, my hands tireless on his warm skin, his tongue shameless in its explorations. I roll on top of him and straddle his hips, feeling him hard and hot, before taking off my sweater and bra without lingering hesitation.

Jamie’s eyes are heavy-lidded, and his hair is thoroughly mussed up, and I want to put it all unto a canvas and sign my name in the right corner - my _masterpiece_ , mine to behold, to hang above the mantelpiece of a burning fire. I allow myself to stare openly; the whip cord muscle under his skin, lean and lithe and knife-carved. “I know we are barely more than strangers, Jamie - but you’re _magnificent_. And I – I am very much in love with you.”

Jamie’s answer is to put his lips above the redness on my breast, balmy and sure, and he tastes my loss and how I’ve risen. His palm covers the skin over my _port-a-cath_ , one of the many ways in which we are the same. “ _Mo ghraidh. I feel so damn lucky.”_

His mouth moves down my chest, and he must be feeling under his breath the beat of my heart, skipping madly at the realization of what he intends to do.

With no more than a powerful twist of his hips, I’m underneath him again, deliciously trapped by his arms. Jamie’s spellbinding fingers undress me from my remaining clothes without any awkwardness or clumsiness, without making me think of haphazardly peeled oranges.

The swirl of his tongue on my inner thigh feels like sweet cherries in summertime, like life happening after something flowers in pink.

_And I feel everything._

I feel the pressure, the reversed rush of blood, the invisible fire. The relief of it brings tears to my eyes and vigorous curses to my mouth. In this my body exists as it always has, only better, with him.

“Surprised, are ye?” Jamie hums against me, his vowels swooping and rippling across my body, until they crash against my breastbone. “This, _I definitely didna learn from Catholic school_.”

After his perseverant mouth and fingers make a spectacle of disassembling me a couple of times, my body is around him. I’m raking his back ferociously; he’s biting the curve of my neck as he thrusts inside me; and forever seems like something we can hold and shield between our sweaty bodies, like a third part of our lovemaking.

Jamie laughs as he comes, a broken, deep, transforming sound, as if release is a marvellous, unexpected, surprise. The air smells like musk, and sex, and citrus and something golden and diaphanous that might be happiness.

And in this moment, I am for certain alive, I am for certain loved, I am for certain remembered.

***

It’s not a secret Jamie and I are a couple; the whole hospital knows it by now. Nurses smile knowingly as we pass holding hands, doctors greet us at the cafeteria, other patients compliment our thriving appearance. A month has passed since the majestic afternoon we first made love, and exhilaration is now more than something to look forward to.

We both have Oncology appointments today, and I lean against Jamie’s shoulder -peeking at the sports section of the newspaper he’s holding - as we sit in the waiting room, expecting our scheduled time to be hammered by Dottie Grey.

“Okay, Claire.” Doctor Sunshine tells me, with a blank expression betrayed only by the slightly upbeat inflexion of her voice, when we’re finally in front of her. “The news are pretty terrific. Your scans came back clear and your tumour markers are way down.” A slight pause, as if she is trying to decide how cautious she should be. Jamie’s hand is gripping mine. I know his smile is lighting up the room without even turning to look. “It all points towards you being in remission. I’ll want you back in three months’ time for another round of exams, of course, but things are looking up.”

It’s like being born again, but this time I’m laughing hard instead of wailing helplessly. This time life isn’t an imposition, a promise made unbeknownst to me, but a true aspiration. I’m holding on to it with both hands, until my knuckles are white and screaming in protest.

Dottie Grey nods to herself. “That’s sorted, then. As to our Mister Fraser…” Her shrewd eyes turn to the computer in front of her, the tap of her posh personalized pen sounding almost eerie in the office.

The nurse in me knows it, by the way she hesitates and composes her face almost imperceptibly. By the hunch of her shoulders and the way her eyes escape to the left just before she speaks.

I understand it instantly, with a sharp ache in a vacant space inside me where hope had nestled in.

I’m getting better and _Jamie is getting worse_.


	5. Bonny Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this last chapter for me isn’t about death, but about life and love, I’m still putting a trigger warning on it. You can even ask me or a friend what happens beforehand and then decide for yourself. This story was a profound labour of love and I’m grateful for everyone who gave some of it back. X

##  **Part V – _Bonny Smile_**

We have three good months after that.

Jamie is placed on a clinical trial for a promising new drug and I try not to inspect him too closely for signs of its efficiency. There is an unspoken agreement between us, since that day in Doctor Grey’s office, that he’d rather be my lover for a minute than my patient for years to come.

We go on a series of dates, sometimes packing strolling, dinner, movie, drinks, dancing, wild sex and tender lovemaking in a sole night, as if we are trying to condense an entire lifetime into a span of unknown duration, but much shorter than what it should have been.

Every so often we don’t sleep but touch each other from dusk to dawn, savouring long, unhurried, hours of mutual satisfaction. Jamie makes me hot-and-cold desserts every other night, tastes them straight from my mouth. I live things with him I thought I’d only ever write about for others.

We go to Rome for a long weekend, plan for Hogmanay with mates and explore the Highlands together. Jamie is beautiful and lively, his mind and wit sharp, but his disease eats the little things. It gnaws at him in the middle of the _Spanish Steps_ , when he has to stop halfway up because he is breathless; it bites him during the night, when he awakes soaked in unnatural sweat; it chews his hope, when he is formally discharged from _SAS_ , and he realizes he is more than likely never wearing his uniform again.

I’m deliriously happy and permanently afraid, the two linked like a blossoming plant and its parasite. I measure time through the growth of my curls, every inch a memory shared with Jamie.

Eventually, after three months, I’m told I’m still firmly queen of remission-kingdom and Jamie’s condition is still progressing. Dottie gives him a referral for palliative care, and I can swear her upper lip trembles when she does it. This is the place where hope ends.

_My boyfriend is dying._

That night I don’t sleep, and I stay watching Jamie pretending that he does. His features feel perpetually new to me, a blindingly-white panic of not being able to memorize him well enough. But on the next morning, I wake with his touch upon me, and it’s still the most real thing ever to exist.

I won’t allow myself to become paralyzed, grief-stricken, pliant as fear and rage take away time that is still mine to share with Jamie. I will have him at the end, even if I wish I had him from the start.

After four months, I’m laying in bed with him, witnessing him dozing on and off. He is fairly tired now, his body scrawny, as if his very bones long to kiss the skin of his cheeks from the inside out. Jamie doesn’t leave the house much these days, the trip to the living room, to look at our painted garden, a dangerous enough crossing. I’m monitoring his pain, all of it, trying to keep it under control.

He moves a long foot against my leg and I almost jump, startled by the coldness of his skin.

“Here.” I cover his feet with a pair of large abhorrent fuchsia socks, made of the fluffiest wool, that I fished from my drawer. I tuck a thick quilt on top of him, just for good measure. “Nice and cosy, my redheaded Scottish burrito.”

“I must write ye a letter of recommendation, _Nurse Sassenach_.” The way his melodic brogue sounds, balmy and slightly naughty, makes my heart race. “Top healthcare in yer boudoir.”

I giggle and he scrunches his nose, delighted. His eyes don’t leave my face, and every ounce of who Jamie is still exists there. “Thank ye.” He says softly, his voice impossibly deep and warm. “Thank ye, _mo ghraidh,_ my Claire.“

I comb his very short hair and emit a tutting sound. "I know fuzzy socks are great - hm, okay, probably the best thing in the world, actually - but no need to thank me. It’s just some deliciously warm feet you have there.”

“Aye.” He snorts, rubbing his cheek against the pillow. “Yer wee pink socks are a true wonder, Sassenach, but it isna that I’m grateful for.” His blue eyes are serious, adamant. “I meant _"thank ye”_ for giving me what was missing, what I needed.“ Jamie leans closer to me, his mouth very close to mine, so I feel his words springing inside my body. "Thank ye for bein’ _my great love story_.”

I bite my bottom lip and look down, my throat achy with emotion. “Please, _don’t do that_.”

“What?” He plays with a curl dangling from my forehead, and I risk peeking at his face. He is smiling tenderly at me, cleaved open. “I’m only just telling my bonny and bossy lass that she is the love of my life. It’s hardly tickle torture.”

“Don’t -” I breathe through my nose, a moist and thrumpety sound, that makes me think of a rhino with the flu. “ _Don’t start saying goodbye to me_.”

His brow furrows and he examines me with longing and kindness swimming in that ocean-blue, jumping in the air like a flying fish, tasting the sun above before splashing down again. “I think _I might have to_ , soon. I’m certainly not too keen at this business of dying, but I - _I’ll be gone soon_ , Claire. We need to say our hearts every day, until then.”

I press my lips to stop myself from sobbing and my palm rubs his shoulder repeatedly, as if I’m trying to rekindle the fire of his body. “I cannot accept that, I’m afraid.”

Jamie sighs and his hands frame my face, every line of his features arched in the most bittersweet amusement. “My bonny fighter would challenge death itself with her tinny fists. Some days, I’m so angry I feel my insides turning bitter. I dinna want to die, to leave ye. But I canna fault a life that gave ye to me, something so rare to have and to hold.”

He pauses for a moment and I know he is preparing himself to say something else I’d rather not hear.

"I want tae know that ye will live a full life, Claire. That ye will think about writing that story when it comes to ye.” He kisses my lips, sweet and all-encompassing, takes his time before pulling away. “That ye will live boldly and without fear. That the world will continue to see that bonny smile, my favourite secret of yers.”

“I’m not sure that I can do that.” I explain in a whisper, the sound of falling tears inside my voice, entwining our hands. “My heart seems to be breaking a little.”

“Hm.” Jamie hums, before he kisses my knuckles and touches the place on my scalp where once a heart had beaten. “Ye ken that song, aye? _Smile though your heart is aching, smile even though it’s breaking_ ,” He sings tunelessly in a low voice, rubbing his cheek against mine. “ _If you smile through your fear and sorrow, smile and maybe tomorrow, you’ll see the sun come shining through for you_.”

And even though my heart is breaking, disassembling on every point where he has inserted himself, I smile at him.

***

**2 years later**

I quirk a brow at the giant billboard placed on the Glaswegian venue, announcing the Q&A and autograph session with _C.E.B.F_ , author of “ _the most lauded debut novel of the decade_ ” and “ _number one of The New York Times’ bestseller list for twelve consecutive weeks_ ”.

Such glamour and pizzazz. People so far away from dreaming that I’m still a shameless and simple cuticle-biter, chicken-roast-arsonist, mirror-conversationalist.

I tilt my head towards the warmth of the sun, streaming through the glass window next to the desk assigned to me, eyes closed. This last part is vital, because you never feel the true warmth of the sun if you’re blinded by its light. The middle-aged star has a particularly hard job over Scotland, always facing the threat of an army of grey clouds, petulant drizzle and impetuous hail. But no matter how much time and effort it takes, it always finds a way.

Once, Jamie and I came to Glasgow on a weekend. It was raining heavily, my dress was soaked, but he had danced like a clumsy and limping Gene Kelly on the puddles, and had kissed me hungrily under the scarce protection of my umbrella. 

_The sun is a resourceful and resilient motherfucker._

“Mrs?” A timid yet emphatic voice sounds from the young girl standing in front of me, the next of my autograph victims. “Mrs. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser?”

“In the flesh.” I smile softly and prepare my pen to sign the hardcover copy of _Magnificent Strangers_ she is offering me. “I have to say, you sounded dangerously like my mother for a minute. Am I in some sort of trouble, Miss?”

The freckled pretty brunette seems borderline embarrassed for a moment, before she recovers her previous pluckiness. “I loved your book, Mrs. Beauchamp. I read it pretty much in one sitting, because it’s just so engaging and well written. But _I don’t understand_.” Her lips press into a fine line, and she seems angry but also maybe on the verge of tearing up. “How could you kill _Proper Boy_? He had just found _Curly Wig_ and they were so happy. They _deserved_ to be happy. How could you kill him and still call it a love story for the ages?”

I smile, and there are memories poking at the corners of my mouth; if I broaden it a bit further, I might find _his own laughter hidden there_ , colliding with mine.

“Well, I understand your point.” I think for a second, choosing my words carefully. “As I see it, the depth of a love story isn’t measured through time. It isn’t the axis it works best around. And love isn’t at the end of our fingertips, anyway - it isn’t something we need to touch in order to feel.”

She squints at me, almost suspiciously, as if I’m trying to sell her a pamphlet to Nirvana at her doorway.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that some lovers are meant to be caressed in memory. They aren’t here anymore, but love echoes.” I say softly. “ _Love stays_.”

The avid book reader looks down, and I see her throat working to swallow hard. Eventually, she raises her eyes to me again, and they are brimming with gentleness and understanding. “But _it still sucks_ , huh?”

I nod in deep complicity, winking at her. “Yes. It _sucks very much_ , indeed.” 

I write her a heartfelt dedication; she thanks me genuinely and disappears amongst the buzzing crowd waiting for my attention. I sign hundreds of books, take a few funny selfies and listen to dozens of rushed love stories.

At the end of the day, my handler offers me a steaming teacup to revive me. I accept it gratefully, and as she walks outside to deal with a reporter, I touch the cover of the book in front of me – _my book, my story_ –, open it to the first written page and whisper, “Still smiling, Sir.”

_To J.,_

_I will remember your oversized bed, the shape of you, the moon on the floor, your ironed uniform hanging inside the closet, your dust covered sax, our afternoon tea, our middays and midnights, our bodies pressed together, the declarations of silence, then and forevermore. Your mouth, my mouth, your hand, my hand, your eyes and the joy of you who made me hope again._

_We will live forever, you and I._

**_The End_ **

****

_**In Loving Memory** _

_**Of All My Magnificent Strangers** _


End file.
